Page 139 of Academy of the Wicked, Year Two

"I'll do it," Mortimer volunteers, and before I can process what "it" means, his face is leaning over mine.

Those scholarly features are set in lines of concentration, the same expression he gets when demonstrating particularly complex magical theories in class. His lips press against mine, not in a kiss but in a practical connection, and suddenly liquid is flowing into my mouth.

Holy motherfucking hell, it's DISGUSTING.

Bitter and sour simultaneously, with undertones of something rotten and metallic that makes my tongue try to curl back into my throat. It's like someone liquefied a corpse, mixed it with battery acid, and then added expired milk for texture.

I'm too weak to even properly express how revolting it is, my body accepting what my mind violently rejects, but I swear to every god in existence, when I have my strength back, I am going to make sure everyone knows exactly how rottenly disgusting this shit tastes.

They owe me that much at least — some acknowledgment of this torment disguised as medicine.

"Keep moving," Zeke encourages, and I catch glimpses of him keeping pace alongside us, his movements still carrying that fluid grace even during what's clearly a crisis situation. His hands occasionally reach toward me, fingertips glowing with subtle energy. "I'm doing my best to replenish her initial magic waves. She'll feel more awake in a few minutes."

The confidence in his tone suggests he knows exactly what he's doing, that this is far from the first time he's had to perform magical triage on someone in my condition.

I wonder just how much power he's been hiding behind that frail appearance, and how many other times he's saved lives without ever mentioning it.

"Let's hurry," Cassius urges, his voice tight with tension while his shadows swirl in agitated patterns around him.

They reach toward me occasionally, as if checking my condition before retreating to continue their restless movement.

It feels like they're running, all of them moving with the coordinated urgency of soldiers retreating from a battlefield. The motion jostles me against Atticus's chest with every step, though I can tell he's doing his best to minimize the impact.

My head bounces against his shoulder, sending fresh waves of dizziness through me each time, but I can't even find the energy to complain.

I try to listen for pursuit, to sense whatever threats might be closing in, but my awareness keeps slipping in and out, consciousness flickering like a dying lightbulb.

One moment I'm hyper-aware of every heartbeat, every breath; the next, the world fades to distant noise and motion as darkness encroaches at the edges of my vision.

All I know for certain is that we're in danger, still running even after Professor Eternalis's intervention. Whatever she did to help us, it clearly wasn't enough to eliminate the threat completely — just buy us time to escape.

I just wish I understood what exactly we're running from.

It's not until they're closing in somewhere does my heart begin to pulse, the sensation distinctive and immediately recognizable. The bond mark tied to Nikolai is throbbing with almost desperate intensity, making me realize Nikolai's bond mark is pulsing almost urgently. The connection suggests proximity, his presence near enough to trigger the magical link between us despite whatever has kept him from the group until now.

I open my eyes, consciousness returning with painful clarity as we begin to slow down. Something in the atmosphere has changed, tension radiating from my companions in nearly palpable waves.

Cassius's voice cuts through whatever lingering fog might have clouded my awareness, the pure venom in his words impossible to misinterpret.

"Motherfuckers. What the fuck is this?"

"What? What's going on?" I ask, alarm spreading through me at their reactions to whatever lies ahead.

Atticus lowers me to the ground with surprising gentleness given the anger evident in his rigid posture. "Are you okay?" he asks first, the concern genuine despite his obvious rage at whatever has triggered this response.

"I'm light-headed but don't feel like I died," I reply, the attempt at casual dismissal of my apparent demise falling flat even to my own ears.

"You did die," Atticus confirms, the blunt confirmation leaving no room for comforting illusions, "but we're not in the right place to have an argument about that."

The statement suggests circumstances demanding immediate attention beyond my temporary demise—something dire enough to postpone discussion of my literal death and resurrection.

"Do we have to argue?" I mutter before he gives me a look that manages to combine exasperation, concern, and lingering terror in equal measure.

I pout my lips in response, the childish gesture somehow fitting despite our apparently apocalyptic circumstances. His groan suggests surrender to this particular battle, if not the war, before he says "We'll talk about it later," and he helps me up with careful hands that belie the restrained violence in his posture.

"Don't lose your shit," he warns, the crude phrasing somehow more effective than any gentler caution might have been.

"Why would I—" I begin, but the words die in my throat as I finally see what's before me, the scene stealing words and breath simultaneously.

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